CHAPTER ONE
Two weeks later
October 22—3:00 A.M.
Somewhere deep within the Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
Sergeant Marcia Wizinski walked down the long, dark corridor toward a conference room. For the last three hours, the men’s angry voices had echoed through the deserted halls. She tapped on the door to let them know that she was entering. When their voices dropped and the room became silent, Marcia opened the door.
“Sir?” Marcia looked for her boss, the Admiral in charge of Special Forces.
“Yes, Marcia?”
The Admiral was sitting at the end of the table, facing the door. Marcia could tell he was angry. She noticed that three of the men had turned away from the door to avoid recognition. Stepping into the room, she kept her eyes on the Admiral.
“You asked me to let you know when they had landed.”
“And?”
“The Air Force reports that the Fey has touched down.” Marcia looked at a piece of paper in her hand. “Sir, um, the Jakker?”
“Sergeant Zack Jakkman?” the Admiral asked.
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Jakkman insisted on taking her all the way to Walter Reed. Her husband and twin are with her in the Black Hawk. There is a Green Beret waiting for her . . . A Sergeant Matthew Mac Clenaghan? The Army says that he is AWOL.”
“She’s alive?” a nondescript, brown-eyed man near the middle of the table asked.
“Yes, sir. She is alive. She remains in a medically induced coma.”
The tension in the room dropped like the barometer before rain showers. A handsome man with caramel-colored skin, broad shoulders, and cropped hair stood and walked toward Marcia. Shifting her eyes toward the movement in the room, Marcia felt a jolt of attraction rush through her.
“Thank you, Marcia,” the man said in a Queens accent. “May I walk you to your car?”
“I . . .” Marcia looked up into the man’s grey-hazel eyes and blushed. She forced her eyes back toward the Admiral. “Sir? Will you need me any further?”
“No, Marcia. Thank you for staying. Please let Agent Rasmussen walk you to your car. Raz?”
“Yes, Admiral?” Homeland Security Agent Arthur J. Rasmussen turned toward the Admiral.
“You’ll report from Walter Reed?”
“Yes, sir. And Sergeant Mac Clenaghan?”
“We’ll take care of his status,” the Secretary of Defense replied.
“Shall we?” Raz asked. He held the door for Marcia.
When the door closed, the men were silent. No one was quite sure what to say. In the single largest attack on a Special Forces team, ten soldiers had been gunned down under the streets of Paris. Not just soldiers, these men made up the most successful and talented team in Special Forces. The very best of the very best were cut in two by AK-47 fire in a matter of minutes.
And, beyond all reason, the Fey clung to life.
“I need to get to Walter Reed,” General-turned U.S. Senator Patrick Hargreaves said, breaking the silence. “As I see it, we have three remaining issues: maintaining our relationships with our allies in Europe, determining the cause of this action, and protecting the survivors. Have I missed anything?”
“I believe that covers it, Patrick,” the Admiral said.
“When this gets out, our allies will be furious,” the Secretary of State said. “Why was an unauthorized Special Forces team working in Europe?”
“They were authorized to operate in any country where someone was held hostage,” the Admiral replied. “The Joint Chiefs, as well as NATO, gave them authority to go where they needed to go. You know their track record.”
The Secretary of State shifted his watch to show a black, scripted “F” tattooed to the inside of his right wrist.
“Yes, Admiral, I am aware of their success.”
“I thought so,” the Admiral said.
“There are no known hostages in Europe,” the Secretary of Defense said. “And the Jakker is not talking. We have no idea why they were in Paris. We need a cover story.”
“We’ve taken care of that. The French know the truth.” The CIA Director shrugged. “The rest of the world believes that the team was killed in Afghanistan. But I’ll have you know that, in the last ten days, we’ve heard from almost every warlord in Afghanistan, including the Taliban. They are shocked and upset. Not one claims responsibility for the attack. If Afghani warlords had Internet access? We’d be in big trouble.”
“What do we do about the French?” the Secretary of State asked.
“My brother works for the French government,” the nondescript man said. He continued tapping a cigarette against the table. “He has smoothed any ruffled feathers. At this moment, there is no record that the Fey or her team was ever in Paris.”
“I didn’t know elite intelligence agents had brothers,” the Secretary of Defense said, looking at the nondescript man. “Well done, Ben.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ben replied. He set the cigarette down on the table. “Do we have any idea why they were . . . ?”
“Murdered?” the Admiral finished Ben’s statement. “No. We have no idea. Who called you to warn you?”
“Someone who is no longer living.”
The Admiral looked at Ben. His distaste for spies, CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, even Military Intelligence, showed on his face. Amused, Ben raised his eyebrows at the Admiral.
“And the vault?” Patrick Hargreaves asked. His voice broke the tension between his best friend and the head of Special Operations.
“We’ll continue trying to get in, but it doesn’t look good,” the Secretary of Defense said. “There is a note in Captain O’Brien’s file that says: ‘Only the Fey has access to storage.’”
“The note was made by?”
“The notation was made five days prior to the assault. By the Fey.”
“If she doesn’t survive . . .” Patrick Hargreaves’ voice caught with emotion.
“When Alexandra is well,” Ben said, “she will stop at nothing to find out what happened.”
“So we wait?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
“We already have a cover,” the Admiral said. “We will stick with the story until we know one way or the other. I will not waste any more time on ‘what ifs.’ In the meantime, I’ve been authorized to create a memorial for the Fey Special Forces Team at Fort Logan National Cemetery. How will we protect the survivors?”
“Agent Rasmussen has created a new identity for the Fey,” Ben said. “She is Alyssa Kreiger, orphan, married to John Drayson. Senator Hargreaves had a son named Alexander instead of a daughter named Alexandra. Alexander was killed in the assault.”
“She’ll work for me,” Colonel Howard Gordon spoke for the first time, “at Military Intelligence in Colorado. We are creating a cartography team for her.”
“She’s already remapped most of Afghanistan,” the Secretary of Defense said. His eyes flicked to her father.
“Alex likes to work with maps,” Patrick said. “Ever since she was a small child, she’s loved maps . . . stars . . . her twin . . .”
His voice caught. The great General Hargreaves gulped back his emotion.
“We agree, then, that she won’t be discharged?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
“She is a welcome addition to our team,” Colonel Gordon said. “We will do everything in our power to keep her safe.”
“She is still contractually obligated to continue working in US Intelligence,” the CIA director said.
“So you are holding her to that goddamn contract.” Patrick spit the words at the CIA Director. “You don’t give a shit about her. You just want your prize.”
“She is a valuable asset that we are extremely unwilling to . . .”
“Alexandra will continue working under me as Agent Rasmussen’s partner,” Ben said.
“And Captain Walter?” the Secretary of Defense asked. He tried veering away from the topic they had been arguing about for the last hour.
“Captain Walter is on six months’ paternity leave,” the Admiral said. “He was due to re-join the team in three weeks.”
“Captain Walter and his family are in the process of being relocated to rural Colorado,” the FBI Director said, with force. While these men argued over details, his agents were doing the actual work. “They will be settled by the end of the week.”
“And Robert Powell?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
“The Boy Scout?” the Admiral asked. “He was not with the team at the time of the assault. He is currently in Nicaragua.”
“A guest of the CIA?” the Secretary of State asked.
The CIA Director nodded.
“Healing from his fictitious wounds. He was with the team for only a little more than five months,” the Admiral said. “He will receive a long-term assignment, probably in Northern Afghanistan.”
“You’re burying him in Afghanistan?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
“I prefer ‘keeping an eye on,’ but yes, we are burying the Boy Scout in Afghanistan.”
“Anyone know where he was at the time of the assault?” Patrick asked.
“Ben?” the CIA Director asked.
“Rumors.”
“Could he have done this?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
Everyone in the room turned to look at Ben. Ben’s eyes focused on the cigarette he was once again tapping against the table.
“Ben?” the Admiral asked.
Ben looked up and shrugged.
“Killed everyone? No. Involved? Probably.” Ben nodded. “Yes, I believe he was involved.”
The men digested the information in silence.
“What’s left?” Patrick asked, as he stood up. “I need to be with my daughter, my family.”
“One thing,” the Admiral said. The scripted “F” tattoo on his right shoulder burned as if he had received it yesterday.
“We protect the Fey. No matter what. We protect the Fey. With any luck, she’ll return to what she does best. With any luck . . .”
The men nodded in unison.
FFFFFF
Three weeks later
November 12—12:15 P.M.
Walter Reed Hospital
Washington DC
“Go to lunch,” Alex whispered to her worried husband.
Dr. John Drayson kneeled next to her bed. His cobalt-blue eyes held her brown eyes while his hand stroked her face. He and her identical twin, Max Hargreaves, had been by her side since she arrived at Walter Reed.
The doctors’ predictions were horrifying. Don’t expect much. She may not recognize you. She won’t be the person you knew. Five days ago, she opened her eyes, looked into John and Max’s worried faces, and laughed. Beyond anyone’s guess, she was her smart, funny, mischievous self.
She just didn’t remember the last six months of her life.
“I . . .” he started.
“Trying to control everything?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Me?” he laughed. “Never.”
“Come on, John,” Max said. “She wants to play cards.”
“How can you say that?” Alex exclaimed. Looking up at her twin, her eyes danced with laughter.
“Liar,” Max replied.
“I . . . I am a wounded veteran. Have some respect!”
At that moment, the door opened, and Sergeant Matthew Mac Clenaghan came into the room. Tall and thin, his dark hair was shorn in a military haircut. He looked like an accountant or maybe a lawyer, not a Special Forces officer.
“Are you guys off to lunch?” Matthew asked.
“I guess so,” John said. He ruffled his dark, curly hair, then leaned over the bed to kiss Alex on the lips. “Sixty minutes. Don’t die.”
“I can’t move. There are guards with machine guns at my door. What could happen?”
“I’ll walk you out,” Matthew said. “I’ll be right back, gimp.”
Alex laughed.
Max held her hands for a moment. Their brown eyes held and they smiled matching smiles. Letting go of her hands, he followed John out of the room.
“She still doesn’t know?” Matthew asked.
“No, she does not know that her team is dead,” John said.
Matthew looked up to nod “Hello” to Sergeant Troy Olivas as he pushed open the door to Alex’s hospital room.
“We need to tell her.”
“When she’s better,” John said, “stronger. You will not tell her now.”
Matthew nodded.
“Enjoy your lunch.”
“You’ll call if . . .” John started.
“Of course,” Matthew said, giving his most reassuring smile.
Matthew waited until John and Max were down the hall before he returned to the room. He spoke with the two Army soldiers guarding the door and went in.
Sitting on Alex’s bed, Troy entertained her with finger puppets. He was in the middle of a nonsensical love story about Enrique and Frieda. Alex giggled at his funny voices and the ridiculous story.
From the moment they had met at Special Forces training, Troy and Matthew were best friends. They agreed on one thing: neither Troy nor Matthew liked the woman in their midst. Less than two months later, Alex’s easy smile, gentle wit, as well as her willingness to drag them through training, won them over. The three soldiers had been friends ever since.
“Is Jesse coming for cards?” Alex beamed at Matthew.
Troy caught her attention again with the squealing voice of Frieda the finger puppet. Frieda’s heart was breaking, and Enrique, the brute, did not care.
“You get us instead,” Sergeant Andrew “Trece” Ramirez said, coming through the door. “We’re a poor substitute for Jesse, but the White Boy never wins.”
A muscular man with a barrel chest, twenty-inch arms and a small waist, Trece held the door for an equally large man with almost albino skin. Trece carried a white bakery box, while the other man carried a dozen large sunflowers.
“We brought donuts and flowers,” Sergeant Christopher “White Boy” Blanco said. “Trece? Can you get the china?”
Trece winked at Alex, causing the empty teardrop tattoo under his left eye to fold into his coffee-colored skin. Setting the donut box on Alex’s bedside tray, he went into the bathroom for paper towels and Dixie cups. When the bathroom door swung closed, and Matthew bent to pick something up, the White Boy pulled a DVD case out of his inside jacket pocket.
“I got the movie,” the White Boy whispered.
He gave her a copy of Walt Disney’s Pinocchio. She tucked the movie under her sheets. The White Boy sneered at Troy, who shrugged. Hearing Trece return, the White Boy became very busy setting the sunflowers into Alex’s plastic water pitcher.
“Oh gee, what shall we drink?” Matthew asked. He held up a bottle of Irish whiskey. “But none for you, missy.”
“You are so mean!” Alex exclaimed.
Crossing her arms across her chest, she pretended to pout. The men laughed at her efforts. Trece returned from the bathroom with Dixie cups and napkins. Matthew poured the whiskey.
“Can you help me sit up?” she asked.
“Sure. Get up Troy.”
“We’re in the middle of the story!” Troy exclaimed. “How will we know if Enrique and Frieda are meant for each other?”
“Oh, God,” Matthew said.
“Hey, if little Troy wants to put on a show, then I think we should watch,” Trece said. He crossed his arms and leaned back on his hip. “Go ahead. We like to be entertained by the little people of the world.”
Alex laughed at the idea of six-foot tall Troy as a “little” person. Alex had met Trece and the White Boy when they sat down next to Jesse in the dining hall in Bosnia. The four soldiers were inseparable for the rest of the tour in Bosnia. Even after Alex and Jesse had gone on to be Green Berets, and Trece and the White Boy moved into government security, they remained fast friends.
“Go ahead, little man,” the White Boy said. He looked up from the don
ut box. “Alex, you want the chocolate sprinkle?”
Alex nodded and took the donut from the White Boy.
Troy, flustered by the attention, stood from the bed. Glancing back, he saw that Alex was laughing at him. He smiled in return and slipped the puppets into his pocket.
From the waist down, Alex was a freak show of gauze, tubes, tape, and wire. Her left hip was all but destroyed. No one knew if she would walk again. Trece and Matthew, one on each side, lifted Alex to sitting. The men looked away when she grunted with pain. She smiled when she was seated. Then the DVD case fell to the floor.
“What’s this?” Trece asked. He bent down to pick up the DVD case. “I love this movie. Shall I put it on?”
The White Boy looked at Alex, who shrugged. Who knew that Trece loved Pinocchio? Trece put the DVD in the player and flipped the television so that the movie played in the background.
“I was going to ask,” the White Boy said. “Do you love Pinocchio because you want to be a boy? You know Pinocchio wanted to be a boy?”
“No, that’s Max! I’m the blue fairy—like my tattoo.”
The men stared at Alex.
“What?” Matthew asked.
“Max and I were supposed to be this boy-girl deformed person, but Max wanted to be a boy. So we’re identical twins instead,” Alex said. She looked from one confused face to the next. “John can explain the genetics if you want. But that’s what happened.”
“All right then. Anyone only has to look at you to know you’re identical twins, but . . . thanks for the clarification.” Matthew said. “Can we play cards now?”
“Thanks. Oh, I might get a call,” Alex said. “Would you mind bringing the phone over?”
“A call?” Matthew asked.
“Are you her personal secretary?” Trece asked. “Man, I would never let a woman push me around like that.”
“Shut up, Trece,” Alex said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trece replied. The men laughed.
“King Abdallah likes to call on his anniversary,” Alex said. “I’m sorry, Mattie. Do you mind?”
“I’m happy to help,” Matthew said.
“Can we play?” the White Boy asked. He passed out cards to each of the men. “We have only fifty-one minutes before the clone and the cutie-pie husband return. I need to make some extra money.”
“You’re going to win?” Trece asked. The White Boy looked at him, and they laughed.
Troy snatched his cards from the White Boy’s hand. Plopping down in a chair near Alex’s bed, he set his feet on her bed. Matthew pushed Troy’s feet off the bed and sat down in their place. Like most experienced soldiers, they were seasoned poker players. They fell into the easy rhythm of playing poker, eating donuts, and drinking whiskey.
Alex was about to win her second hand when the phone rang. She opened her mouth, but Trece beat her to it.
“Mattie,” Trece said, imitating her voice. “Would you mind getting the phone for me?”
Matthew shook his head at Trece. Walking across the room, Matthew picked up the telephone. Carrying the phone across the room, he lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew replied in Arabic. “She is right here. One moment.”
Matthew gave Alex the telephone receiver. Alex set her cards face up showing her straight flush. The men groaned and threw their cards at her. She ducked to avoid the cards and took the telephone receiver from Matthew.
“As-Salamu `Alaykum,” she said, giving the standard Arabic greeting into the phone. She smiled at Troy’s exaggerated response to her win. Even Enrique the finger puppet protested.
“Alaykum As-Salam, my dear,” a man’s voice said in Arabic. “How does it feel to have killed your entire team? Decorated soldiers with wives and families cut down in the prime of their lives because of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They didn’t tell you?” the man’s voice purred in her ear. “They are all dead, Alexandra. And you are to blame. Charlie, Dwight, Paul, Nathan, Jax, Dean, Scott, Mike, and Tommy. That’s not to mention Jesse Abreu. How does it feel to have killed your best friend?”
“Jesse?”
“You as good as put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”
Troy nudged Matthew’s arm and pointed at Alex. Her face had blanched white.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Eleazar. I want you to know my name so you will know precisely who did pull the trigger. Just in case you forget, I will call you every month at the exact time I was forced to kill your team. You will never forget what you have done.”
“What have I done?”
“Forced me to kill the Fey Special Forces team. You’d better take a good look at what’s left of your friends. Enjoy them while you can. I will kill every one of them while you watch until you give me what I want.”
“What do you want?” she whispered into the phone.
“I want my property,” the voice screamed into the phone.
Alex screamed. Dropping the telephone receiver, her hands covered her ears, and a flood of tears poured from her eyes and nose. Her ears filled with the sound of ragged breathing. And panic set in. Desperate to get away, to get to anywhere safe, she ripped the tubes, wires, and IVs from her body.
Troy jumped from his chair. His arms went around her torso as he tried to stop her thrashing. Trece’s hands went around her ankles to keep her legs still, while the White Boy ran to get the doctor. Matthew dropped beside her into the bed.
But the damage had been done. In her terror, she had ripped the deep sutures in her hip. Her blood flowed freely from her femoral artery.
A nurse ran into the room, followed by the White Boy. The nurse ran out of the room to get the doctor.
“Trece, put your hands on the wound,” Matthew screamed.
The White Boy took Trece’s place at Alex’s ankles. Trece jumped to press his hands against her open wound.
“Yes, right there.”
Despite their efforts to hold her still, she rocked back and forth in the bed.
“Everyone’s dead. Everyone’s dead. Everyone’s dead. Everyone’s dead,” she whispered over and over again.
“Alex, honey, you have to stop moving,” Matthew said. “Ah, fuck.”
The monitor screamed when her blood pressure plummeted. The doctor ran in with a nurse. Yelling orders to the nurse, the doctor fumbled with Alex’s useless IV lines. He pointed to Alex’s arm, and the nurse injected barbiturates into her arm. Within seconds, she fell back against the bed.
“Mattie?”
“I’m here,” he said.
“I killed everyone.” Alex dropped into drug-induced oblivion.
F
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